


you were my everything 'till we were nothing

by MetaphoricallyPainful



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shadow World Setting (Shadowhunter Chronicles), Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Geographical Inaccuracies, Historical Inaccuracy, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Metaphors, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Sad with a Happy Ending, The story's better, Xu Ming Hao | The8-centric, idk how to tag, minghao is immortal, shadowhunter!mingyu, shadowhunter!seokmin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28990341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MetaphoricallyPainful/pseuds/MetaphoricallyPainful
Summary: It’s okay, though, Minghao thinks as he focuses back on the lolling waves of the Pacific. He’s been hurt before, picked apart and laid open, punched through and left bleeding. He’s picked himself up everytime, pieced himself together with shaking hands and an even shakier will. This type of pain is nothing unfamiliar.ORMinghao's journey as he loves and loses but eventually finds the one.
Relationships: Hong Jisoo | Joshua/Xu Ming Hao | The8, Kim Mingyu/Xu Ming Hao | The8, Kwon Soonyoung | Hoshi/Xu Ming Hao | The8, Lee Seokmin | DK/Xu Ming Hao | The8, Xu Ming Hao | The8/Yoon Jeonghan
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	1. beaches, ping-pong balls, and a lost home

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [take the heart, leave the bone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25718818) by [dygonilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dygonilly/pseuds/dygonilly). 



> sooooo
> 
> this is my first fic on ao3, and i'm really excited to be sharing this. 
> 
> i love minghao and this is my story of him loving through the centuries and learning what it's like to lose them.
> 
> hope you enjoy!
> 
> (title taken from "My Everything" by Ariana Grande)

* * *

_ Minghao and Seokmin _

_ January 1st, 2021 _

_ The Los Angeles Institute, California _

* * *

Watching the ocean is routine for Minghao now. The wind ruffles gentle fingers through his hair, tousling it with a lover’s fondness. The sun settles on the Pacific ocean, sending her golden rays cascading down and through the waters like roots through dirt. Minghao stands with his toes buried in sand, fingers clasped across his front. The private beach behind the Institute offers security from the laughing families parked farther down the golden stretches of sand. Minghao watches them with a twinge in his chest. It’s one very familiar now; a gasp for something he cannot have. 

His gaze strays, just occasionally, he convinces himself, to the curved pavement that leads up to the front steps of the LA Institute. From his position on the beach, he can just glimpse the cars whisking by on the freshly paved roads that stretch like arms from either side of the Institute. If his mother was here, she might chide him for his impatience. 

_ Always so eager, bǎobèi,  _ she would gently chastise,  _ you cannot run to everything the way you might to a candy store.  _

_ But it’s fun!  _ He would whine back, lips set in an adorable pout as his mother laughed and ruffled his hair. 

_ One day, you’ll learn,  _ she had said so long ago,  _ the world will carve patience from you like one would a figure from stone.  _

His mother is no longer here now, to take his hand gently and press her lips to it lovingly. He misses her, feels it like a sharp glass fragment in his chest. He misses the way comfort could be sought from her twinkling eyes and lovely smile, the smell of his favourite dish steaming on the table as he tramped through the door from a long day of school, and her bed time stories of a world filled with wonders and beauty. That glass fragment no longer elicits fresh pain, its edges having long ago been eroded like a stone tossed in the river of time. 

It’s okay, though, Minghao thinks as he focuses back on the lolling waves of the Pacific. He’s been hurt before, picked apart and laid open, punched through and left bleeding. He’s picked himself up everytime, pieced himself together with shaking hands and an even shakier will. This type of pain is nothing unfamiliar.

The roar of a Honda sounds from the road, so unmistakable and achingly familiar. Minghao turns his head, tries to ignore the way his heart picks up its pace where it pounds against his ribcage. The bright blue Honda peels off the main road and veers onto the looming driveway of the Institute, its thunderous roar gradually fading away. 

Faster than his brain can register, his feet are moving. They carry him over the jagged rocks, up onto the mowed grass of the Institute backyard, and around the building to where the driver of the Honda is unloading his bags. Seokmin turns at the first echo of his bare feet against the concrete, the force of his beam brighter than a thousand suns as he promptly drops his bags and barrels toward Minghao with all the grace of a drunk elephant. 

They’re laughing, gangly limbs twisting in a weird tangle. Just like that, he’s back in his ten-year-old body, arguing with his mother about the benefits of being impatient. If impatience results in a beautiful, sunny-smiled, 24 year old boy tumbling into his arms, he can take being chided everyday. 

They pull apart slightly, breaths mingling and silly smiles still plastered on their faces. 

“How was Shanghai?” Minghao asks, in lieu of all the other questions locked behind his teeth.  _ Did you miss me? Did you think of me? Did you replace me? Do you still love me?  _

“ _ Fēi cháng hǎo!”  _ The fractured but earnest Mandarin tugs a brighter smile onto Minghao’s face.

It’s not uncommon for shadowhunters to take a travel year. Usually, many go explore the world when they turn eighteen. Seokmin, however, fell in love with the joys of travelling the first time he went on a travel year, back to Seoul. He insisted from then on that he would take a travel year every other year. It’s never easy to see him off, to watch his chipped blue Honda disappear around the bend of the road. But each year, he comes back, a new language added to his list and an even brighter smile that blooms into something warm in Minghao’s chest. 

Last year, Minghao walked into Seokmin’s room to find him staring at his map, scrutinizing the tangled mess of lines on the paper. 

“Where do you want to go this year?” He asked, hoping that Seokmin would choose somewhere closer, someplace near to dampen the hollowness in his chest that accompanies his every departure. 

“Shanghai!” Seokmin replied with such surety in his tone that Minghao took a step back, momentarily stunned. Seokmin caught his reaction, brow furrowing into the beginnings of a frown as he watched Minghao. 

“I need to get a glimpse into your culture and language. I don’t think it would be fair to have you be my most important person and not know your culture!” 

That line was delivered with such offhanded casualty that Minghao couldn’t quite breathe for a few seconds. Longing panged in his chest like a ping-pong ball, rattling furiously as he struggled to clear his head.

He looks at Seokmin now, grinning in the circle of his arms, and that ping-pong ball is back, dragging with it every ounce of feelings and emotions he’s tried so hard to tamper down. He ignores it, catching at Seokmin’s hand as he smiles.

“Come on, let’s get your things inside, and then I shall quiz you on your Mandarin.” 

Seokmin giggles, complying eagerly as they both bend to pick up the bags on the ground.

The evening is spent cuddling on Seokmin’s bed as he recollects memories from his time in Shanghai. They both reminisce about the taste of hot pot, of  _ dìsānxiān, _ of steaming  _ xiǎolóngbāo _ served in bamboo baskets. He watches fondly as Seokmin rants about the differences between the  _ málàxiāngguō  _ in Korea and the authentic one in Shanghai. (“The Korean one is so much sweeter, with more hints of  _ gochujang _ ..!”)

Eventually, the chatter dwindles down to amicable silence, upon which confessions are professed through fingers tracing aimlessly on Minghao’s skin. With every press of his fingertips, every exhale of his breath into the space between them, Minghao can sense Seokmin answering his internal questions.  _ Yes, I missed you. Yes, I thought of you. No, I didn’t replace you.  _

It’s like this when the sun draws curtains on the world and the moon shines from where it hangs in the sky. Sleep finds them like this, arms thrown over each other and bodies curled together.

* * *

_ Minghao and Mingyu _

_ 1903 _

_ The London Institute, The United Kingdom _

* * *

Minghao falls too hard sometimes, and way too fast. He’s never been one for patience, never refined the art of the meticulous ways that his mother possessed. He’s never been fully taught how to love. He only knows the desperacy with which the characters of Shakespeare’s greatest works love, the tragic displays that Bizet’s operas are teeming with. He doesn't know how else to love, other than to pour out years worth of desire and longing on death’s doorstep. 

Mingyu was different. 

Where Minghao was prickly words, overeager acts and overwhelming in his utter devotion, Mingyu was steadfast, beautiful, an anchor in the waves of Minghao’s emotions. Mingyu rooted him, grounded him in the most intimate of ways; a created home where he’s held up by the knowledge that Mingyu will always have his back. 

Mingyu was the one that taught him how to slow down. To lose himself in the little moments of everyday and enjoy them as they come and go. 

He remembers one of those moments, where he was watching the muscles of Mingyu’s arms flex as he danced around his imaginary opponent under the slices of sunlight that filtered through the training room window. The golden light scattered across his skin, catching and reflecting on the metal of the spear spinning in steady hands. 

Mingyu saw him watching, and spun his spear one last time before flinging it with perfect accuracy to drive it into the bullseye of the target swaying from the far side of the room. Minghao smiled then, shook his head at his beloved’s antics. Mingyu retrieved his spear, took Minghao’s face in his calloused hands, and kissed him with such surety that it stole his breath from his lungs and refused to give it back. 

He thought  _ forever, _ back then. 

Oh, how naive. 

It was barely two months before Mingyu was gone, locked away in the Infirmary of the London Institute as the poison worked its way through his veins and choked the life from his lungs. 

Minghao sits in the empty parlor of their house now, staring emptily at the embroidery pattern adorning the cushions on the couch. The cushions Mingyu had loved so much, had insisted be put on the couch because “ _ everybody must see them.”  _

Now it’s all gone. 

White sheets drape over every piece of furniture, furniture they’d handpicked for themselves. 

It’s then that he realizes. 

The truth can be devastatingly cruel when it wants to be. 

This is the true meaning of his existence, of his immortality.

He is bound to a life of pain, a life of loving, watching them die, leaving. Rinse, repeat. 

He regards the house, and the future it had once stood for. Now, covered in white, it stood like a ghost, a ghost in the place of happy memories and loving promises. 

He’d rushed it, the way he’s always rushed everything. He had gotten carried away, swept along down the river to their future. 

This is life teaching a lesson. 

His mother said so once too. 

_ “The world will carve patience from you like one would a figure from stone.” _

* * *

_ Minghao and Seokmin _

_ February 18th, 2021 _

_ Los Angeles, California _

* * *

Minghao wakes to the sound of birds trilling outside and a beautiful voice twisting through the empty corridors of the LA Institute. He lies back for a moment, allows himself to sink into the warm embrace of Seokmin’s voice. 

When he finally makes his way downstairs, the scene that greets him is so domestic it jars him. All of a sudden, that ping-pong ball is back, bouncing to and fro in his ribcage, as if it is a trampoline park. Minghao pauses in the doorway of the kitchen, watching as Seokmin flips pancakes with practiced ease. He runs a hand through his hair, letting the silk of it sooth him. 

He steps onto the tiled floor of the Institute kitchen, bare feet echoing gently as he sets down his gift on the kitchen table. Seokmin turns to him, two perfectly round stacks of pancakes drenched in maple syrup on two plates. An easy  _ good morning  _ falls from his lips. Minghao wants to catch it with a kiss. 

“Happy birthday, Seokminnie,” he says instead, threading his arms around Seokmin’s waist. 

Seokmin sets the plates down gently before hugging him back. Minghao notices belatedly the strength of his arms, the curves of his biceps. His sleep-addled mind wants to touch them. He pulls back. He smiles instead, and kisses Seokmin’s cheek lightly.

“These smell amazing,” he sighs as he sits down. 

Seokmin’s answering grin is blinding from where he sits across the table. Minghao nudges his gift gently, prompting Seokmin to pick it up. He does, carefully, slim fingers working deftly at the wrapping paper. When it finally comes undone, Seokmin fishes out several coupons, each one marked with a signature domino in red and blue. 

“You always say your favourite food is pepperoni pizza,” Minghao offers, somewhat hesitantly. 

Seokmin’s bright laughter erupts, bubbles from his mouth like champagne from a bottle. Minghao feels his hesitation scatter, chased away by joy; a rainbow after a storm. 

The domino’s pizza coupons flutter to the table as Seokmin drops them unceremoniously, dragging Minghao up by the hand as he envelopes him in his wiry arms. 

“Oh, Myungho-yah,” he laughs, “you’re the best.” 

His Korean accent slips through sometimes, weaving through the English syllables, creating nuances and adding cadences. It happens when he’s happy, Minghao notices. He loves it, really, in the same way he loves everything about Seokmin. The lilt of his Korean accent is uniquely him, and perfectly imperfect. 

He pulls back, extricating himself. 

“Let’s finish our breakfast,” he says, “your real gift hasn’t even started yet.”

Seokmin’s excitement is palpable throughout the rest of breakfast, to the point that Minghao has to remind him to slow down, to be patient. How ironic. The thought brings back memories of Mingyu, of warm, calloused hands; graceful, broad shoulders; promises whispered at twilight; and a home draped in white sheets in London. 

Minghao blinks to find Seokmin’s worried face floating in his view, fluttering hands hovering just on the edge of his peripheral vision. He smiles, for Seokmin, for himself, as he shakes away the last lingering memories like cobwebs. It’s Seokmin’s birthday. He will not ruin that with his selfish thoughts of a man from a lifetime ago. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, “today is about you, and we have lots to do!” 

The worry melts from Seokmin’s face, excitement slipping back on as he chatters away, guessing at the different activities Minghao has planned for the day. 

*

Minghao ducks into the driver’s seat of Seokmin’s Honda, in which said car’s owner is currently sitting with a blindfold on. He wriggles, complains, but it lacks the heat. 

Minghao laughs as Seokmin’s nose scrunches up, an adorable contrast to its usual sharp visage. He pulls the car out slowly, backing cautiously onto the main road before speeding off along the coast, one arm dangling out the open window as wind squeezes into the confines of the car, blowing their hair back in wild waves and plastering cheerful smiles onto their faces. 

Music blares from the radio, chasing the wind, a set of backing vocals for their laughter. Minghao feels free. 

Their little car makes its way leisurely away from the breeziness of the coast and worms into the crawling traffic of early morning Los Angeles. Seokmin notes the change in surroundings with a curious tilt of his head. 

“Myungho-yah, just where are you taking me?” he whines, pout evident in the way he pulls his syllables. It’s reminiscent of the way he pulls his bowstring. Everything about Seokmin screams shadowhunter, from his perfect posture, toned body, and sharp senses to the runes edging up his arms. It makes sense, his resistance against not knowing. 

“Just a little further,” Minghao assures him, “you’ll see.”

“I won’t if you keep this blindfold on me,” he mutters, fingers tugging at the black cloth around his head. 

Minghao only laughs in response. 

Another quick turn and the pier comes into view, the ferris wheel sparkling with blinking lights. Minghao maneuvers the car into one of the parking spaces beside the beach. He cuts the engine, undos his seatbelt, and reaches over for Seokmin’s blindfold. The moment the cloth is off, Seokmin shades his eyes from the sun, peering out over the beach. 

His gasp is indication enough. 

Seokmin turns his face back to Minghao, eyes shining under the brilliance of the morning sun. 

“Oh, Myungho,” he whispers, barely loud enough to be heard over the cries of the tourists.

Minghao hears him anyway, understands his sentiment. 

He settles his gaze on the horizon and sees them, a younger Minghao and a seventeen year old Seokmin, sprinting across the sand in a blur of limbs and hair. He remembers the way they strolled down the pier, buying ice cream from one store and a hot dog from another. He remembers the smile on Seokmin’s face that day, the curl of his tongue around Minghao’s name as they chased each other across the golden stretches and tackled each other into the waves. Santa Monica Pier was the root of their friendship, the seed of something unknown and exquisite between them. 

They step out of the car together, gazing out at the children playing indulgently in the blue-green waves lapping at the shore. 

Minghao turns to speak to Seokmin, only to catch a flash of slimy white. Before he can shout a warning, the  _ Drevak  _ demon is sinking its fangs into Seokmin’s shoulder. Rage turns Minghao’s vision red, clouding over his senses as only one set of information is relayed to his brain.  _ Seokmin is injured.  _

Before he can react, Seokmin is moving. Training guides his arm to reach for the seraph blade tucked under his shirt. 

“ _ Michael,”  _ Seokmin hisses, teeth clenching against the pain. The blade lights white, and he plunges it in the larva-like flesh of the  _ Drevak  _ demon without a second thought. The demon dissolves in an explosion of dust, already blowing away as the breeze sweeps away the mess. 

Blood traces his bicep on its way down, coloring the edge of his white shirt pink. Minghao guides him into the car before getting in himself, jamming the keys into the ignition and veering back toward the Institute. Tourists yell curses in his wake in a garble of languages, but Minghao is seething. 

How could he not have seen that coming? Why did he let his guard down? Why couldn’t it have been him? 

His thoughts chase him home, up the stairs, into the Infirmary, all throughout the treating of Seokmin’s wound. 

As he sits by Seokmin’s bed, swiping stray bangs off his face, he vows to never, ever allow that again.


	2. coconut milk, parabatai, and tattooed hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and im back with chapter two!
> 
> this one took some time to write and was extra painful, soooo sorry?
> 
> anyways, hope you enjoy!
> 
> (unbeta'd, because i don't have someone to stan seventeen with me *sigh*)

* * *

_ Minghao and Joshua _

_ December 10th, 1941 _

_ Pearl Harbour, Hawaii _

* * *

War is an ugly creature. 

It claws its way into the world, tearing across nations, leaving nothing but ruin, pain, and desperation in its wake. The world succumbs to it, dangles, lifeless, in the grip of its jaw. Minghao feels as if he is far removed, sometimes. He soars out into the galaxy and watches as Earth burns herself under the choices of mankind. 

It takes something from him, war. 

He holds distant memories of a war longer ago, a war of bloody carnage resulted from an accidental shooting of people in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

But that didn't take something from him. 

He could listen to the radio and ache with the losses announced, but at the end of the day, the knob would be turned and he would move on. 

Hawaii had gleamed in its radiance the first time Minghao stepped foot on it, all wavy palm trees and a turquoise blue sea that foamed at the mouth. His fingers had itched for his paint supplies then, wishing that he hadn’t left them behind to fade to memory alongside that house in London. 

Hawaii’s beauty was what beckoned to him.

But Joshua was what hooked him to stay. 

In the loping grace of his strides, the melodic tone of his voice, the way the breeze ruffled his blonde locks and blew sparkles into his eyes, Minghao found another home. It had rang through him, shuddered its music through the marrow of his bones from the moment they touched, when Minghao had been so lost in his thoughts that a bustling street car almost flattened him, had Joshua not braced an arm around his waist and lugged him backwards. 

Joshua laughed then, gently setting Minghao on his feet as he admonished Minghao against the dangers of the road. 

“ _ Cars are made of metal,”  _ Joshua said, his head ducked, the small uptilt of his full lips barely visible under the wide brim of his top hat, “ _ we are not.”  _

He tipped his hat to Minghao, straightened the lapel of his trench coat, and walked off before Minghao could collect the thoughts singing in reverb beneath his skull. 

It was perhaps pure luck when they met again, under the trembling shadows of the palm leaves. Minghao had been staring at the ocean, wallowing in the waves of his thoughts as tourists floated on the waves in front of him. A steamship bobbed by the docks, unloading a new flow of them as they flocked to the beaches. 

“ _ Quite the noise they make, don’t you think?”  _ Minghao turned, surprise making a home out of his features as he registered the man before him.  _ Oh.  _

“It’s Joshua,” he offered, when Minghao stared. 

He remembers the summers of blazing heat and lapping waves, recalls the gentle sweetness of coconut milk, made more so by the taste of the lips on his. 

Joshua was everything Mingyu was, and everything he wasn’t. Minghao found comfort in the steadiness of his hands; he met familiarity in the mellowness of his voice. 

They spent the summer of 1940 wandering the natural wonders of Hawaii, mapping out their favorite landmarks. When night nudged day away, they would trace their maps onto each other’s skin, teeth biting the landmarks and sweat trailing the rivers. 

It was somewhere around the one year mark, when Minghao let himself hope. Walking the cobblestone streets as evening teetered on the cusp of night, Joshua entwined his fingers with Minghao’s. The simple touch sent something flowering in his chest, releasing a wild flurry of  _ what ifs  _ and  _ maybes.  _

But he never learns. 

When Joshua left their little shared living space on the morning of December 7th, 1941, Minghao didn’t anticipate the shattering of yet another home he’d built for himself. 

When bombs rained the harbour and people ran screaming into the streets, he flew down to the docks, where he knew Joshua should have been. Instead, wreckage greeted him. Smoke eclipsed the sky, blurring the beautiful scenery he had drawn so many times. 

The pain was familiar. 

It rose in waves, devouring the sense of peace that had wrapped itself around his soul and bound his fragmented heart. 

Because he nevers learns, does he?

Nestling against the wall of the steamship, three days later, Minghao reflects back to the summer of last year, once so vivid and colorful, now only another set of grainy photos to be added to his album of painful memories. 

A home covered in white sheets, and an island drenched in ashes. Wherever he goes, he burns. 

Will it ever stop hurting?

* * *

_ Minghao and Seokmin _

_ May 23rd, 2021 _

_ Los Angeles, California _

* * *

Minghao finds himself so very foolish sometimes. 

One would think that after lifetimes of love and loss, he would at least fix the lock on his heart. But people keep coming, they keep finding the key. Time and time again, that lock would be broken, unlocked, useless. The people come, they open the safe of his heart, learn of the secrets buried deep, and leave him bleeding when life tears them apart.

But no matter how hard he tries, and fails, to guard that traitorous muscle in his chest, it always outsmarts him. It’s like a wild dog on a leash; he tugs back until his hands bleed, but the dog simply chews through the leash and takes off running. 

Minghao watches miserably as the wild dog of his heart is sent abruptly flying back by the scene in front of him: Seokmin, with his hair tousled and clothes rumpled, marks littering the expanse of his neck and lips kiss-swollen. On the couch, another figure lay, stretched out in the same rumpled countenance as his…. _ lover. _

Oh.

The ping-pong ball has grown in size over the course of the past three months. Now, a tennis ball careens around in his chest, demanding to be addressed everytime Seokmin sends a smile his way or lays a hand over his. 

_ No, I did not replace you.  _

Had Seokmin lied, or was that his heart pulling the reins of his mind?

A noise pushes unbidden out of his throat. Seokmin’s head swivels, seemingly 360 degrees in the dim light seeping through the hastily-thrown curtains. His mouth parts in an O upon realization, before scrambling to cover the marked column of his throat. He ends up with a cushion pressed awkwardly against his front. Under any other circumstances, Minghao might have laughed. Instead, he watches the sinking of his heart with an odd sort of detachment. 

It’s interesting, really, how he calls it  _ his  _ heart. It was never really his anymore, from the moment Minghao had stepped foot on the front stairs of the Institute and found a chestnut-haired boy grinning shyly at him from the other side of the door. Seokmin had become a constant in his life since, a stream of bubbly energy fizzing his way through life and all its obstacles. Minghao had found his raucous laughter endearing, the curves of his eyes charming. He still does, more so everyday. He had watched in awe as Seokmin’s elegant fingers coaxed delicate melodies into the stuffy air of a Los Angeles summer from an old grand piano that stood regal in the corner of the Institute sitting room. 

The same piano looms in front of him now as Seokmin stares open mouthed at his unexpected appearance.

“Minghao.” 

His Chinese name. 

It lacks the sort of fondness Minghao had come to associate with the Seokmin’s Korean lilt of his name. An aloofness now fills it, brought on by the formal pronunciation of his given name. 

“I-I’m so-sorry,” Minghao stammers, tongue working clumsily around the syllables. “I just wanted to get a drink…?”

The statement was more question than reason. Seokmin accepts it with a nod. Then he sighs.

“Look, this isn’t the way I thought you guys would meet.” Seokmin’s eyes stray back to where the other still sleeps on the couch. 

Minghao only nods tightly, the normalcy of his voice stolen away by the realization still shocking its way through his body. Seokmin runs a hand through his hair, fluffing it in an undeniably adorable way as Minghao aches with the sudden urge to follow Seokmin’s fingers with his own. 

He clears his throat.

“Are you guys...dating?” the question falls like dynamite from Minghao’s lips. 

“Not precisely,” the reply was hesitant, Seokmin unwilling to provide further incentive to thicken the tension in the air. 

“We met in Shanghai,” He began again, “I knew no one, and I was desperate to fit in, what with the language barrier and all.” A restricted laugh.

“I missed you, so much, and I wished that you were there with me.”

Each individual being in the universe has a breaking point. One can only withstand so much pressure before it cracks. The words drive deep into Minghao’s heart, fissuring it like an earthquake to land, even as it sinks. 

“Don’t say that,” Minghao whispered, anguished, “don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” Seokmin whispers back, agony marring his handsome features, “you mean the world to me, Myungho-yah, and being away from you is like leaving behind half of my soul.”

Minghao looks away, pain searing like fire through his lungs, his mind, his body. 

“If you were a shadowhunter, I would have offered long ago to be your  _ parabatai _ .”

And just like that, the spark becomes a forest fire, and Minghao is lost in it. He’s choking on the ashes of hope, and his heart is a melting pile of glass shards at his feet. 

_ Parabatai. _

The concept of  _ parabatai _ is one often likened to the mortal word ‘soulmates’. It is a pair of Nephilim warriors fighting side by side for life, bound by oath and friendship, regardless of gender. The bond stems from an old biblical tale of Jonathan Shadowhunter and David, warriors who loved each other dearly, with souls knitted together by Heaven. 

It’s a bond of heightened connection between two individuals. One soul in two bodies. Two halves of a whole. These two individuals build and work off of combined strength, runes doubling in power when applied by each other. 

Power always comes at a price. 

True romantic love is forbidden between  _ parabatai.  _

It is a Law embedded into the Codex, and upheld only through the iron fist of the Clave. Generations of shadowhunters have heeded the Law, and thus no romantic relationships bloomed between  _ parabatai.  _

_ It’s interesting _ , Minghao thinks vaguely, the fire eating away at his mind, pain lost to dizziness and a sudden bone-aching tiredness.

It hurts to think that Seokmin will only ever consider him this way, as a close friend, a potential  _ parabatai,  _ and nothing more. 

A hand lands on his arm; a bucket of water is tossed on the roaring flames. The heat cools, and Minghao is dragged out of the forest fire, to where Seokmin is standing in front of him. 

“Myungho-yah?” The tenderness of Seokmin’s tone unlocks something in his chest, and Minghao is hit with an overwhelming urge to get away. 

“I-I’m fine,” he stutters, “I just need some rest.”

When the worry stays glued on Seokmin’s face, Minghao gathers all the self-control he’s collected over the years and laser beams it all into one last thing: forcing a smile onto his face. 

“It’s okay, you should go back to him.”

“I’m happy for you.”

* * *

_ Minghao and Jeonghan _

_ July 26th, 1943 _

_ Hamburg, Germany _

* * *

That ugly creature called war already took someone from him. 

Minghao should know better, really, at this point. His logic screams at him to get away, to leave, find a nook of the world and hide until the humans fix themselves and their irreversible mistakes.

He didn’t, though.

Instead, he threw himself into the center of the action. Veiled in the grief that engulfed him, he had dropped himself into the greatest hubbub of the war: Germany. Maybe he thought that the ongoing fighting could dwarf the grief, or maybe he thought that the constant fear for his life could make him forget. Or maybe he just didn’t think at all. 

Days, months, and hours later, Minghao once again feels the agonizing results of his impatience.

Within his first glimpse of Hamburg, Minghao had already begun making comparisons. The vivid natural tones of Hawaii; the square, even buildings of Hamburg. The winding avenues and deep blue sea; the parallel streets and towering skyscrapers. It was a far cry from the beauty of Hawaii, but it was different. Minghao had hoped that maybe he could build a life here, make use of his medical knowledge from his time with the shadowhunters. 

What he didn’t expect was falling in love. 

Yoon Jeonghan was nothing like the others. 

With Mingyu it was gentle care, wise words, paintings drying on the wall and night walks in the park. With Joshua it was a cocktail mix of extravagance, affluence, and gentlemanly courting. With Jeonghan…

Jeonghan was wild; passion, desire, lust and love storming in a tornado that raged through their chests and bled through the gasps shuddering from open mouths. There was a sort of desperation that speared through their time together, an urgency instilled by the war. They shared kisses like it was their last, curdling desire into each other’s bodies well after the sun stepped foot over the horizon. 

Minghao allowed himself to indulge, and be indulged in like never before. The war assigned an expiration date above their heads, held aloft by the fact that their end could be anytime, anyday. Logistically, Minghao knew he would keep existing regardless. Immortality locked him to this wretched world in iron leashes. Yet existing would have been meaningless without Jeonghan, without the constant thrill of adventure that lingers in the salty taste of his skin. 

During their first night together after three months of courting, Minghao asked Jeonghan if he was just a distraction, with a running undercurrent of nerves lacing his words. His mother had often warned him of people like Jeonghan, those who find the pleasures of life and soak in it, gaining and losing interest as quickly as the tide can turn.

Jeonghan laid tender eyes on him, melted chocolate in the lamplight, and explained that Minghao was the center of his axis.

“ _ You ground me, Myungho-yah,”  _ Jeonghan murmured into the silk of Minghao’s hair, “ _ I lose sense of who I am, sometimes, I over-indulge.” _

_ “You remind me to slow down, enjoy, even in times of such devastation.”  _ The lock on Minghao’s heart weakened, met with the first twist of the key. 

From then on, it was just a matter of the lock on his heart and Jeonghan’s inexorable will to prove his devotion. Every act, every word, every kiss pressed to sweat-soaked skin ate at the lock until the chains were an undignified heap on the floor and Jeonghan had Minghao’s heart held precariously in his hands. There was a flicker of rare vulnerability that graced the handsome angles of Jeonghan’s face, when Minghao entrusted the mess of his heart, still bleeding, to Jeonghan. 

“ _ Here, take it,”  _ He said, “ _ be the sacred guard, for you are the glue that binds it.”  _

_ “It’s yours,”  _ Minghao added,  _ “tattoo your name on it so I can carry your strength with me into the bleak future of life.”  _

_ “I love you, Yoon Jeonghan, and I’ll never stop.”  _ Jeonghan laughed through his tears, kissed him fiercely, tangling his promise into his mouth. 

“ _ Always so dramatic,”  _ Jeonghan teased, cupping slender fingers around Minghao’s flaming face, “ _ and I’ll love you more for it.” _

Fitting, how he chose that night to confess. Because the following morning, when Hamburg only began stirring in the lazy heat of the sun, aircrafts of the British Airforce dotted the sky, dropping bombs carelessly into the symmetrical streets of the city Minghao had grown to love. 

Some that were outside ran for shelter, falling to their knees and praying for a divine help that will never arrive. Minghao dragged a still half-asleep Jeonghan into the ill-prepared cellar of their home, wrapping his arms around his shaking form. 

Screams filled the air, squeezing through the smoke of the fires. On and on, the inferno raged, stealing the oxygen from the people’s lungs and feeding its greedy flames. Sometime during the hours during which they were trapped, Jeonghan had started breathing heavily, skin slick with sweat and a sickly flush rapidly spreading. Pinkish bumps dotted his clammy skin, and his pulse fluttered weakly when Minghao put a hand to his pulsepoint. 

From his meager silos of medical information, Minghao recognized the symptoms of heat stroke. 

“ _ Jeonghan, “  _ he said, panic leaking into his voice as confusion crossed Jeonghan’s features, “ _ Hannie!” _

_ “Do you recognize me? Hannie?”  _

Jeonghan only mumbled something, lost in the clamor of the firestorm outside. 

Minghao racked his brain desperately, going through all treatments of heatstroke. Everything he knew of involved getting away from the heat, or applying cool water to the skin. Unfortunately, given their situation, all options were unavailable. 

“ _ Hannie, please,”  _ he sobbed, hands grasping at Jeonghan’s limp wrists, “ _ talk to me.”  _

When begging yielded no results, Minghao simply clutched Jeonghan's body in his arms, a body he knew so well. In that kneeling position he stayed, until the air left Jeonghan’s body and never went back in again. 

Days later, nestling against yet another steamship heading away from Europe, Minghao wonders at the amount of bad luck he’s had with love. His album of grainy photos keep growing, and the tattoos on his heart burn with the weight of his losses. 

Pain is an old friend, now. It nudges at him, pokes skinny elbows into his sides until he’s bent over, shaking and gasping with the force of its shoves. He used to fight it, beat it down and pin it with his heel. He lets it do its thing, now. He lets its poisonous embrace envelope him until he’s numb with it. 

What’s the point of feeling, anymore, anyways?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! 
> 
> let me know what you think in the comments!


	3. doenjang-jjigae, glass towers, and a confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is the grand finale!(not really but kinda?)
> 
> anyways this chapter is the longest of them all. thank you for reading this:) i really appreciate it. 
> 
> POTENTIAL TW: there is a brief mention of a panic attack in here, so if that might trigger you, please be careful with the last section.
> 
> *some of the Shadow World specific vocab will be defined in the notes at the end. So if you are confused about certain vocab then you can find them defined at the end:) 
> 
> aside from that tho, enjoy the happy ending!

* * *

_ Minghao and Seokmin _

_ September 6th, 2021 _

_ Los Angeles, California _

* * *

Summer comes and goes.

The tennis ball stays.

Seokmin’s  _ lover _ comes and goes.

Minghao’s heartbreak remains.

The tension that bursts forth between them is something new, though. 

It tides over them like the waves of the Pacific. Gone is the easy camaraderie between them, split by the wedge of disquiet that wiggled into their space sometime ago. Minghao feels as if they are standing on opposite shores of the world, stranded by an ocean of issues unresolved and questions unanswered. That gap only widens everytime Seokmin brings  _ him _ home, everytime Minghao walks in on them sending each other loving glances that call him an interloper in every existing language of the world. 

Equal parts jealousy and longing gasps in his chest everytime. 

He wants to be the one to wake Seokmin with kisses brushing his skin. He wants to be the one tangling his fingers with Seokmin’s while watching a movie. He wants to feel those graceful hands touch him. He wants to touch the flashes of golden skin and corded muscles he glimpses in the doorway of the training room. He wants, he wants, he wants.

But he can’t have it.

He just about resigns himself to a lifetime of being a cheerleader on the sidelines as other people make home runs with Seokmin. 

Until one day Seokmin traipses through the double doors of the Institute with dejection clinging to his shoulders and tears tracing the sheer drop of his nose. Outside, the rain batters against the windows, dark clouds rolling through the sky. Water glides down Seokmin’s neck as he tips his head back against the door. Minghao has to swallow twice before jumping up from his fluffy nest of blankets. He grabs one of them, making his way toward Seokmin.

“Hey,” he starts, not quite sure if his company will be appreciated, “are you okay?”

He cringes inwardly immediately after, sensing the awkwardness and uselessness of that question a beat too late. 

Seokmin’s eyes flit open, red-rimmed and tired. 

“I-I don’t k-know.”

The broken tones pick at the frayed edges of Minghao’s heart, sending painful waves through his chest. He steps closer and wraps the blanket around Seokmin tentatively. 

“Come sit on the couch,” he offers, “you can tell me, if you want, or not.”

It’s a feeble olive branch, a weak approach at reconciliation. But he’s trying, Angel, he’s trying. He’s rewarded with a weak smile in response, and the heavy silence oozes through the humidity in the air as Seokmin shuffles towards the couch. Minghao takes this opportunity to run up the stairs, darting into the bathroom to grab a towel. On his way back, he passes by Seokmin’s room, pausing briefly as he stares at the stuffed dog sitting on Seokmin’s bed. After a moment’s hesitation, he picks it up too, taking the stairs down two at a time. 

In his haste to get to Seokmin, he trips on the towel, sending himself sprawling across the marble floors with a paroxysm of curses fleeing his lips. A smattering of footsteps echo, and when Minghao looks up, Seokmin is standing over him, a small smile tugging at his lips as he reaches out a hand.

“What’s this?” he teases lightly, “Xu Minghao, tripping?” 

The friendliness seeping through the words flutters to Minghao’s heart and balms the injuries there. He takes the offered hand, climbing to his feet as he pieces together a reply.

“I was hurrying to you,  _ pabo-yah _ ,” he grumbles, dusting off the towel and rolling it up before it can become a catalyst for an encore of inelegant falling. He heads off towards the sitting room, Seokmin trailing behind as the quiet settles over them again. 

He hands the towel to Seokmin when they reach the couch, who takes it and musses his hair with it, drying over the wet strands and mopping at the water on his face and neck. 

Minghao sinks into the couch, passing Seokmin his stuffed dog as he climbs on instinctively after, tucking himself around Minghao and wrapping the blanket back around his body. When Minghao peeks down through his lashes, he’s met with an adorably fuzzy Seokmin nestling his face against his neck. 

For a second, he allows himself to dream, to imagine what it could be like, to wake up to Seokmin wrapping like a koala around his body. To walk downstairs, not only to receive a gorgeously presented breakfast, but also tender morning kisses. 

It’s an ideal. One very prone to becoming a quagmire for his brain and imagination. It is dangerous territory. Minghao should restrict himself from that zone, the way mundanes are restricted from the Institute by the signs outside. So he resists, grappling to hold on to his sense of reality, already floating away everytime Seokmin exhales against his neck, warm breath fanning across the sensitive skin and coaxing goosebumps to the surface.

Seokmin sniffles lightly, effectively pulling Minghao out of his thoughts. He turns his head, or as much as he can, with Seokmin borrowing his shoulder as a pillow. 

“Do you want to talk, or would you just rather company?” he offers cautiously, knowing the sensitivity of an emotional Seokmin.

The silence stretches on for a few minutes, punctuated by the occasional muffled sniffle against Minghao’s shoulder. He can practically hear Seokmin’s brain clicking away, weighing the importance of certain facts and sifting through truths and lies. It hurts, knowing that Seokmin no longer feels comfortable enough to tell him everything, but he understands. 

How could he not? 

It took him days, weeks, if not months, sometimes, to open up to his newest lover, to dig out his photo album of bad memories and show them his wounds and scars. But he was willing to bleed for them; they were willing to be patient for him, to hear his words, to care about the fragmented story delivered with hiccupped sentences and sobs as punctuation. He can hold the pain back for Seokmin to be comfortable. 

“You know the one I was with when you walked in three months ago,” Seokmin finally breathes out, “we broke up.” 

Somewhere deep in Minghao’s chest, in a hidden, terrible, selfish little place, something rejoices. It’s utterly despicable, but it’s there. Minghao hates that thing with a burning intensity, hates that it’s happy despite the pain his best friend is in. 

He can’t help it, though―not that that’s any valid justification―but he’s so selfishly glad that he can have Seokmin again, without the constant pressing knowledge that Seokmin is taken. 

“Myungho?” 

Minghao shakes himself mentally, slapping at the undignified thoughts gyrating in his brain. 

“Hmm?” 

“Are you paying attention to me?” Seokmin asks, indifference bleeding into his voice and tensing his muscles. He pulls away from Minghao, lips pursed as he regards him.

“Do you actually care?” 

The pain is tangible this time, physical like a punch to the stomach. It zips him back decades, back to Mingyu, to Joshua, to Jeonghan. He’s reminded of the times he held them, rocked them in his arms as they asked question after question about his immortality. There’s usually a variety in curiosities, but there’s one constant. 

_ “Do you actually care?”  _

That one question always carried a world of inquiries on its back.  _ Do you actually care, or am I just another temporary road stop for you on your journey of immortality? Do you actually care, or am I just another distraction until you find someone to spend eternity with? Do you actually care, or are you just in for the ride, for the pleasure, for an escape?  _

Each time it was asked, a whirlwind of emotions, feelings, thoughts and confessions crested in his chest, pushing, begging, pleading to be let out and heard.  _ Yes, you matter. Yes, you mean the world to me. Yes, I would want to be with you forever if I could.  _ He obliged that whirlwind each time, letting them know through the promises he whispered into sealed mouths, through the ebb and flow of their movements as they trembled together. 

But that was easier. The love and history they’d already shared provided a safety net for him.

Seokmin doesn’t love him like that, not in the way his heart demands. 

How could he possibly explain the vast well of his feelings through just words? Immortality garners a deeper type of feeling, one shaped from living through lifetimes of civilizations. Mortals can’t always understand it, much less reciprocate it. They can’t bear the weight of something so great, so beyond their knowledge and understanding, that they simply collapse under it sometimes. Some of his earliest memories were of his earliest partners abandoning him under the pressure of his feelings, his confessions. They didn’t know how to deal with it, how to mediate the emotions that hit Minghao so strongly sometimes that it brought him to his knees. So they ran, leaving him in the dust of their footsteps. 

He’s learned from them that not everyone can bear that weight, will bear that weight. He tends to gravitate towards shadowhunters, for their understanding and acceptance of immortality. 

Seokmin is strong. He’d sat and listened without interruption the first time Minghao told him of his immortality. He’d held him when he’d cried about his tragic love life. He’d pulled Minghao into his arms and promised that he’d find someone. What Seokmin didn’t know was that he already had. 

But he can’t tell Seokmin that now, not when he’s so delicate. Minghao can’t unload all of that on Seokmin. Because for as long as he has lived, for as long as he has loved, he’s still scared. He’s terrified of losing Seokmin, of confessing only to be rejected. But he can’t have Seokmin misunderstand him either. 

So when he turns to face Seokmin, he does it with his emotions unguarded and hanging from his features, the way his paintings hang from the walls behind them. 

“Seokmin-ah”, he begins, then falters, unsure of his trajectory, “I don't know how else to say this, really, but you mean the world to me.” 

“I know people see me and see a life for an eternity. I know they see a long line of lovers, of relationships lost to time. I know you see me like that sometimes too. But that doesn’t change anything about how I care. You know of my past, of the twists and turns that accompanied every relationship I’ve ever had. I was terrified, terrified of losing them, and I still am. Each time I see you out the door, I wonder if it’s the last time I’ll ever see you. Angel, I love you, Lee Seokmin, I really do. Believe me when I say I do care, way more than I should sometimes, but I want to make it crystal clear that you never have to doubt my affections.” he finishes with an exhale, snatching air quickly back into his lungs. 

He realizes he’s closed his eyes, so he pries them open, finding them filled with a shocked Seokmin.  _ It’s too much,  _ he thinks immediately,  _ I’ve overwhelmed him.  _

But then Seokmin smiles, a sun breaking over the clouds, and Minghao feels his heart soar. 

“Oh, Myungho-yah,” he sighs, falling into Minghao’s lap, “I love you so much.” 

He’s floating, flying, leaping, breaking through the clouds. For a minute, he actually believes. Maybe there’s a chance, maybe Seokmin does love him like that, maybe-

“I wish that you were my  _ parabatai  _ so much sometimes.” 

His heart plummets. The clouds roll back in, thunder hollowing out the place in his chest where his heart used to be. Seokmin’s head in his lap feels incredibly heavy, a reminder of what he cannot have. 

“Myungho-yah?” Seokmin’s smile wobbles where it sits on his face, already tilting dangerously close to a frown. Minghao blinks down at him, zooming in on the pretty highlight dusting the slopes of his cheekbones from the warm glow casted by the lamp on the table. He wants to draw him, to trace, examine, and study every line of Seokmin’s body until he has it memorized. His eyes flit to his lips, parted from the question still lingering. For probably the billionth time, Minghao wants to press his lips to them, to taste the question on Seokmin’s tongue and deliver his answer with his own. He looks away. 

“I’m fine,” he says, because it’s the only thing he can say, “maybe go take a break? I’ll bring some doenjang-jjigae up later?” 

His heart lifts a little at the way Seokmin’s eyes light up. 

“Okay!” The usual bright tone of his voice is returning, permeating the taciturnity like a witchlight through darkness. 

Minghao musters a smile at him, at the tufts of hair sticking out in all directions on Seokmin’s head, at the lopsided smile playing at his lips, and at the voluminous blanket still draped over Seokmin’s slim figure.

He watches as his shadow disappears around the corner. It’s agonizing, the feeling in his chest. The way Seokmin toys with his heart unconsciously, leading him on a constant emotional rollercoaster, is taxing. 

He feels drained. 

He picks up his phone, entering  _ Seongbukdong _ into the Google search engine. Seokmin has been marvelling at their doenjang-jjigae for months, ever since Minghao brought him takeout when he was bedridden with the flu. He places the order, and tosses his phone into the jumble of pillows beside him. 

His head drops into his hands, bangs falling into his eyes. 

The moment he closes his eyes, his brain projects a luminous image of Seokmin onto the dark backboard of his eyelids. The image flickers, shuffling through variations of Seokmin in different memories like a deck of cards in a dealer's hands. Seokmin with a nest of bedhead; Seokmin at the beach, the sun kissing his temples; Seokmin in a suit, champagne flute in one hand, laughter alight on his face; Seokmin in a blanket, nestled against his arm. And lastly, unwillingly, his brain presents him with an image of Seokmin on May 23rd, bruises dotting his neck and his clothes in a disarray. 

He groans into the juncture of his hands over his face. Even though their issue seems somewhat mended now, apprehension still coats his heart in an oily film. They’re balancing on a precipice, where one wrong step could send their relationship toppling into the ruins. He doesn’t think he can handle that, a world where Seokmin no longer rises like a second sun, always beaming in the peripheral of his vision. 

Maybe this is what he deserves, after letting down so many before. He couldn’t save Mingyu, couldn't save Joshua, couldn’t save Jeonghan. Maybe this is the Angel’s way of punishment. Forever exiled to the friendzone, watching as others are able to cross the line. 

It sounds ridiculous when put that way.

Ensnared deep in his web of thoughts, a notification reaches him from somewhere amid the myriad of pillows on the couch. The food is here.

He scrambles up from the couch, crossing the mosaic on the floor of the foyer to pry open the door. A rain-soaked delivery man stands at the far end of the driveway. He pins a suspicious glare on Minghao through the entire duration of him strolling across the driveway and taking the food. It’s not surprising. Mundanes are often shrouded in suspicion upon closer inspection of the Institute. It’s glamoured to resemble an abandoned church, the keep away signs alike to gnomes in a front yard. He pays his bills, the delivery man immediately retreating as soon as the transaction occurred. Minghao chuckles internally at his skittish behaviour before closing the door. 

After several minutes of fruitless digging in the pillow pile, he resurfaces triumphantly with his phone in hand and carries the food up to Seokmin’s room. The old staircase groans under his feet, in harmony with the moan of the wind outside. Suddenly, eeriness steals into the vastness of the Institute. Darkness presses into his personal space, settling claustrophobia about his shoulders like a cloak. He quickens his footsteps, only relaxing once he steps into the honey light spilling from the crack of Seokmin’s door. 

He raps his knuckles against the wood, alerting Seokmin to his presence. A faint “come in” echoes from inside, so he pushes open the door. 

The space that opens up before him is familiar. He’s been here countless times, and stepping his foot over the threshold was never a problem. Objectively, he knows it still isn’t. Subjectively, though, this is weirdly symbolic. He feels like he’s been granted permission into some special, private part of Seokmin’s life, after months of exclusion. It’s ludicrous, given the amount of times he’s slept in that bed with Seokmin. Said person now lies on said bed, languidly scrolling through his phone. In the reflection of the window, Minghao catches a glimpse of an Instagram page, with posts of a boy with alarming resemblance to himself. He blinks, and the reflection is gone, the phone shut off and tossed carelessly on the bed as Seokmin sits up. 

_ Idiot,  _ he chides himself,  _ why would he be scrolling through your Instagram page?  _

The thought is quickly wiped from his mind as Seokmin makes grabby hands at the plastic bag dangling from his fingertips, looking so helplessly  _ cute  _ that Minghao really wants to pick him up and coo at him. He passes over the bag without hesitation, plopping down on the bed as Seokmin moves a bed table over from where it was collecting dust in the corner. He drops onto the bed, unfolding the little wooden table and setting it across his lap. Minghao looks at it and boomerangs into a memory. 

17 year old Seokmin, bedridden with the flu, eating out of an identical takeout container, clinging on to Minghao after finishing and asking for story after story.

He glances at Seokmin now, delicately spooning doenjang-jjigae into his mouth. So much has changed, yet much still remains the same. He spots a particularly stubborn piece of rice on Seokmin’s chin, having escaped the shovelling the rest of the rice is enduring. Without thinking, he reaches over to pick it off. Fingers meet chin, and electricity shoots up his arm from the single contact point. Seokmin freezes, his eyes darting nervously to Minghao’s face. He’s trapped, held immobilized by the intensity of Seokmin’s eyes. Time liquifies, slowing down as Minghao’s brain narrows onto one thing: he’s touching Seokmin, somewhat intimately. And Seokmin’s allowing him. 

He curls his fingers slowly over the offensive piece of rice, picking it off as he revels in the warmth of Seokmin’s skin against his fingertips. He flicks the rice away onto the lid of the takeout container, where it lands with a soft sound. He trails his thumb along Seokmin’s jawline, sliding his hand so that his palm rests against his face. Seokmin’s lips part, a soft sigh stuttering out. 

Minghao swallows. 

Seokmin breaks the eye contact to follow the movement, and Minghao’s breath catches in his throat. His eyes drop to Seokmin’s lips, tracing the outline of his cupid’s bow and he leans in imperceptibly-

The wind throws a tree branch against the glass panes of the window. Time slams back up to speed like a rubber band rebounding. The moment breaks, and Minghao snatches his hand away like he’s been burned. The severity of his actions catch up to him, and embarrassment floods his face.

“I-I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and he darts out the door on socked feet, leaving the calls of his name dropping to the floor in his wake.

* * *

_ Minghao and Soonyoung _

_ September 15th, 2001 _

_ New York City, New York. _

* * *

For years on end, Minghao had exiled himself from relationships. 

He was just so tired of pain. 

And so he had dragged himself to New York City, where busy office workers barely glanced his way as he trudged on through the streets. He’d found himself a little apartment in Chinatown, hoping to wash away some of the pain with the familiarity of the syllables being tossed back and forth from the various shops lining the streets. 

His life there was routine. He picked up drawing again, and his sketchbook was filled to the brim with New York City skylines. Sometimes, his feet would carry him to Columbus Park, where he’d sit on a stone bench and watch the seniors practice  _ Tai Ji _ in neat formations. He would also find himself engaged in several games of chess or  _ mah-jong.  _ And then he’d head home, stopping on the way to buy some vegetables, before toeing off his shoes at the  _ welcome _ door mat of his cozy apartment and beginning his cooking ritual.

Wash, chop, cook, season. Minghao found comfort in the routine, the simplicity of day-to-day life. 

He remembers looking out over the sinking light of the sun and considering a life there, as a welcomed member of an impromptu community. Immortality had tugged him from place to place, from individual to individual. He’d outlived conflicts, wars, monumental moments in human history, literature and artistic movements, and gathered an eternity’s worth of pain. Ever since his early childhood, he’d never settled down, never interacted with humanity at a deeper level save for his loved ones. Being here, in this little corner of the world his people have carved out for themselves, he felt at peace. He felt accepted, understood. 

It was just that Minghao found a distaste for exile barely two months after his attempt at normalcy in life. The comfort that was once in the routine of everyday life was replaced by irritation, a scratching under the skin for something  _ new,  _ something  _ exciting.  _ Going to the park and drawing New York City skylines under a pink blanket of clouds was no longer enough, peace shoved away by the creeping sense of  _ something’s missing.  _

It was this creeping sense that guided Minghao’s feet to the World Trade Center, where the world’s tallest buildings scraped the sky in twin bodies of glass and steel. Stepping off the bustle of Church Street, Minghao perused the plaza and its surrounding buildings opening up before him. The sheer magnificence took his breath away. Human triumph gleamed from every window, dripping down the sides of the columns in a way that demanded attention.  _ Look at us,  _ it said,  _ look at what the force of human imagination and will can do.  _

He broke his routine that day, just to sit in the sun and bathe in the beauty and elegance of contemporary architecture. In the center of the plaza, a bronze monument of sorts rose from a shower of water, the fountain a flat, round disk. Minghao wasn’t familiar with American history, nor the architecture and designs erected in commemoration. He can appreciate the artistry, though, the halo of bronze edging on gold as it caught the light of the sun. He was content to just sit, to delve into his library of thoughts and memories. His contentment was interrupted shortly, by a man in his early twenties as he all but collapsed onto the bench beside Minghao. 

_ “Good-” _ the man checked his watch, the clock hands dozing at just past twelve,  _ “noon? Lunchtime?” _ His face was decked with uncertainty when he looked up at Minghao, a smile still lingering nonetheless. The angle of his head showered the dark brown of his hair with sparkles, the sun streaking a handful of highlights amongst the strands. His eyes fluttered dark shadows against the pale skin of his face. Minghao’s brain registered all of this under a second, before he even knew the man’s name.

Minghao smiled back, his lips pulling up at the corners. 

_ “Good day?” _ he suggested, running through ways to greet one during lunchtime. It was odd, no one really greets another at lunchtime anyways, at least not for the first time. 

_ “But that’s usually used for goodbyes,” _ the man whined, lips shaped into a pout that hung crooked on his mouth,  _ “do you want me to leave?” _

Surprised, Minghao laughed. He was a breath of fresh air. He exuded playfulness; it radiated from him, and Minghao leaned into it, turned towards it; a sunflower to sunlight. 

_ “What’s your name?”  _ he asked, his heart doing something funny when a bigger smile formed the man’s eyes into little crescents. 

_ “Soonyoung,” _ he answered,  _ “and what is yours?” _

_ “Minghao,”  _ he replied. The grin he received reached deep inside him and smothered that creeping sense, the one that had led him here. He supposed it was fate, as cliché as it sounded. They fell into effortless conversation from that, trading backgrounds and stories as easily as life-long friends. Topics of talk, for once, were no struggle to find for Minghao. The openness with which Soonyoung held himself was infectious, gently grasping the gates of Minghao’s thoughts and insights and allowing, accepting, the overflow of information that erupted once the dam was broken. He felt like he could talk for years, but reality eventually caught up to them, when the sun no longer sat high in the sky. They parted with phone numbers exchanged and a promise to meet at the same place tomorrow. 

On his way back home, there was a bounce in Minghao’s tread, footsteps buoyed by the friendship that had caught him unawares, but was not entirely unwelcome. Quite the opposite, in fact, as he reflected on the joy that enveloped his heart every minute of the interaction with Soonyoung. There was something tentative in his chest, something that’s poking its nose out and sniffing the air delicately. It hasn’t been awake for a long time. 

*

His life held meaning again. Before, he was simply existing for the immortality that held down his wings and prevented flight. Now, he was living again, no longer restrained by the chains of his own, self-regulated exile as he went about his daily life. Soonyoung added a sparkle to his life, a reason to wake anticipating the day rather than moodlessly going about. 

Soonyoung started frequenting his little apartment somewhere around two months into their friendship. It was to the point that Minghao would traipse home from the park one day and find Soonyoung rummaging through his pantry, sweatpants low on his hips and drowning in an oversized shirt. He looked at home, like he belonged there. And maybe he did, after a while. No matter how busy work in the World Trade Center could get, Soonyoung always found his way back to Minghao’s apartment, crashing on the couch for the night and waking up next morning to find Minghao standing over him with hands on his hips and lips set in a fond, exasperated smile. 

_ “If you keep staying here, you’ll have to pay rent.” _ Minghao dodged the volley of cushions sailing toward him neatly as he laughed. 

_ “Yah!” _ Soonyoung’s whine was wrangled with fake annoyance,  _ “Why?!” _

Then consideration crossed his face, and Minghao looked at him, noting the sudden lack of pillows assaulting him. Soonyoung looked deep in thought, an expression that rarely visited, surpassed by goofiness and weird faces more often than not. 

_ “What if I do move in with you?” _ he mused out loud. Minghao’s breath caught. There was only one bedroom. It’s funny how that was the first thing his brain chose to worry over. While he wouldn’t mind sharing a bed with Soonyoung, lately, that tentative creature in his chest has grown more bold. He’s not sure how it will react to sleeping with Soonyoung on the same bed. 

Soonyoung looked at him then, worry creasing his eyebrows. A small part of Minghao wanted to smooth his thumb over it, but he was distracted with a question instead. 

_ “Would you mind?” _ it was tentative, almost like Soonyoung didn’t know, wasn’t aware of the fondness Minghao held for him.  _ “Your apartment is closer to my workplace, and given that I spend most of my free time here anyways…?” _

He trailed off when Minghao smiled.  _ “Of course I wouldn’t mind, you idiot.”  _

Relief crashed over Soonyoung’s face, and he beamed.  _ “Well, then, that’s settled. Half the rent’s on me!” _ And just like that, Soonyoung became a permanent part of his life. When Soonyoung moved in, it was as if laughter, mischief, playfulness and banter had all squeezed into Soonyoung’s suitcase and made a home out of Minghao the moment the suitcase opened. They flowed out like spirits out of Pandora’s box, settling in Minghao’s heart until he felt like he could burst with it all. Their lives wove together, entangled in the hugs they shared and the snark comments thrown across the room in moments of anger. Those moments never lingered, always buried under the laughter that sneaked up on them everytime. 

Minghao woke up everyday to the weight of a leg thrown over his and a face tucked into his neck. Getting up without disturbing Soonyoung used to seem unfeasible, having to navigate the jungle of limbs starfished on the bed. He picked through the jungle deftly now, recognizing the cadences of Soonyoung’s breaths to indicate the heaviness of his sleep. Soonyoung slept with his face half smothered in the pillow, arms thrown haphazardly and sunlight kissing the expanse of his bare back. And if Minghao stopped to admire the view, well, no one had to know. 

Life went on like that, and it was good. But that creeping sense gradually came back, this time accompanied by a desire to have something deeper with Soonyoung. It coated his mind, filtering through every little action, shifting through incohesive puzzle pieces in an attempt to piece together a chance where he was sure there was none. It went like that for months, until one night Minghao broke down and confessed with a shaking voice and trembling hands. Steady hands covered his; he looked into Soonyoung’s eyes and saw constellations, stars of a whole new world in them. They gleamed with a promise, a promise to stay, a promise of a fresh start on the road of love.

That road was all rainbows and fluffy clouds and golden glitter the first few months. Soonyoung craved attention, demanded it. He clung to Minghao like a ship lost at sea, so at odds with the way he had handled Minghao’s panicked confession. Turns out, Soonyoung was more well-versed in the language of the body, conversing through intimate touches and tender kisses where words failed. It was overwhelming; it was beautiful. 

The road bumps along the way were no match for them; they were polar opposites, North and South, gravitating towards each other like magnets. Their relationship was playful banter, gentle caresses under a blanket of stars, and cozy homes built for their hearts in the warmths of their eyes. It was comfortable, easy. He walked Soonyoung to work each morning, and spent his day wandering the diverse streets of New York, returning to the World Trade Center each evening to pick up Soonyoung. Their evenings were dedicated to each other, either in fluffy clothes cuddling on the couch or spread languidly on pristine bedsheets, hands fisted as they shivered apart together, bathed in the soft moonlight peeking through the curtains. 

*

Their time spent together dripped, twined around them and spilled from their pockets. Minghao let his guard down, let their time together slip away like a gambler would his money. He got used to the lifestyle and forgot to slow down, to  _ treasure.  _ He loved Soonyoung with all his being, but he took time for granted. 

It’s become a pattern, at this point. Minghao should have recognized it, recognized that maybe disaster just trailed in his wake. But he didn’t. He could argue that he was occupied with matters of the heart, with maintaining a relationship. Did it really matter though? In the end, he’s still the one losing. 

He walked Soonyoung as usual that morning, his hand wrapped in Soonyoung’s as they picked their way through the bustling streets of early morning New York City. The sun smiled down at them, splashing its warmth into the gentle breath of the wind. It was a pleasant day for September, and contentment enveloped the two of them. By the time they reached the World Trade Center, the city was alive with noise again, cars honking their way down the streets and vendors shouting into the fray. Pedestrians clotted the sidewalks, headphones in and distracted. Workers milled around the plaza, chatting with friends and drinking in the good weather. Minghao let Soonyoung go with a kiss on the cheek and a smile tossed over his shoulder, chuckling at the wild wave dance Soonyoung’s hands took up in his direction. 

He let his feet take him to Mott Street, the heart of Chinatown, and released himself to the familiar intonations of Mandarin and Cantonese. He traced a frequented path through the tight-knitted street, packed with people and cars. He waved to the shop owners he recognized and let his thoughts loose. 

Life in New York was cherished, wonderful,  _ human.  _ The food tasted of home, of loving memories buried under pain and anxiety. He had gone to a Chinese restaurant on a whim one day and almost cried at the taste of  _ Guōbāoròu,  _ the sweet and sour taste exploding over his tongue in a tangle of memories. It brought back a little house in front of rolling hills in Anshan, a small but bright kitchen, and the feeling of yellow linoleum under well-worn slippers. Minghao had found many homes in his life, and lost just as many. He didn’t know what he’d do if he lost another one. 

He had only begun making his way back to their apartment before smoke plumed into the sky in thick, acrid black clouds. He whirled around as the others beside him gasped and pointed upwards. He followed the line of their gazes, panic freezing in his veins as he watched burnt orange flames erupt from one of the twin glass towers. The city was screaming, sirens wailing in the distance as pedestrians fled into the safety of their own homes. Minghao stood frozen, gazing slack-jawed at the deadly beauty flowering in the sky. A man yelled at him to get inside before the flames found them here, but Minghao barely registered it.  _ Soonyoung, Soonyoung, Soonyoung.  _

_ “Soonyoung!”,  _ he screamed into the chaos, taking off down the street toward the World Trade Center. Yells tailed him, telling him to get back, to not be an idiot. He ignored it all, plundered on with only a certain brown-haired man in mind. He skidded around the corner, scanning the streets desperately for any sign of Soonyoung. None. People streamed past him in opposite directions. Hope was a withering flower in his chest, but people were still running out of the building, so perhaps Soonyoung could still be alive. 

That flower died, in the end, alongside the collapse of the building altogether. 

Minghao remembers the numbing shock overtaking him, remembers the worried faces of others as his vision blurred, his knees weakened. It was like a dream. He remembers thinking vaguely that things like this only happened in movies. But no, it was very much real. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the  _ Soonyoung, Soonyoung, Soonyoung  _ chanting from his lips. There were voices raised in alarm floating around him. He waved a hand, mumbling something like  _ I’m fine, where’s Soonyoung?  _

_ Where’s Soonyoung? _

*

He woke up in his bed, in his apartment in New York. Wonwoo leaned over him, dabbing at his brow with a gentle, wet cloth, worry clenched in his jaw. Minghao sat up abruptly, pushing away Wonwoo’s hands roughly as he scrambled for his phone. His hands shook, and the phone fell to the floor. He muttered a curse, reaching for it. Wonwoo’s hands beat his, curling around the phone. Minghao expected him to give it back, but Wonwoo simply withdrew his hand. 

“ _ What are you doing?”  _ Minghao hissed around clenched teeth, panic locking the back of his throat, “ _ Where’s Soonyoung?” _

“ _ Soonyoung is gone, Minghao, “  _ Wonwoo said gently, watching him with something much alike to pity in his eyes. 

Rage flared through Minghao’s bones. “ _ No he isn’t, you’re lying to me!”  _

Wonwoo simply shook his head, sadness weighing his shoulders. “ _ I’m not lying, look.”  _ He offered him his phone, where a casualty list blinked back at him. Minghao took the phone with shaking fingers, scrolling through the list until he reached the last names starting with K. There, slanted letters flaunted the truth in his face.

Soonyoung Kwon. 

The air left his lungs in a punched exhale. Soonyoung’s gone. His brain ran through images, snatches of memories, of conversations. The feeling of Soonyoung’s lips on his, the delightful nights spent interwoven on the bed, the flirtatious bantering over breakfast plates, the intensity of Soonyoung’s eyes during his confession. Memories held in rose-tinted glass shattered, coated his heart with its sharp fragments, each one a reminder of his loss. Tears pricked at his eyes suddenly, and he blinked furiously against its upcoming tide. Wonwoo’s hand landed on his shoulder, and he was swallowed by the waves. 

Hours he spent, sobbing in the solid support of Wonwoo’s arms. He couldn’t really find it within himself to be sorry. He couldn't really find any emotion in himself anymore. Everything had been leached grey, monotonous and pointless. Wonwoo was the only reason he ate, drank, and slept. At first, he resisted, opting only to sit by the window and stare moodily out over New York City. Minghao’s argument was that he wouldn’t die.  _ But you still wouldn't be in good conditions.  _ Wonwoo had argued back. 

He allowed himself to be taken care of for four days. 

Eventually Wonwoo had to leave, surrendering Minghao to his grief, sitting alone in the cold living room. Minghao gazes out the window, at the New York City skyline he’d drawn so many times, the sunset he’d painted so many times. Those paintings and drawings still exist, hanging from the walls in a dejected disarray. But the most important paintings are now lost to memory. Minghao thinks of painting Soonyoung with his hands as he took him apart, fingers walking along the ridges and valleys of Soonyoung’s spine. He thinks of sunlight painting the curves of Soonyoung’s face as he threw open the curtains each morning. He feels the drawing on his heart, the tattoo of Soonyoung’s name in addition to the other names. He wishes desperately that he’d taken photos of those moments, if only to be added to his album. 

Minghao goes to sleep that night in a cold, empty bed, and dreams of a brown-haired man with a galaxy in his eyes. 

* * *

_ Minghao and Seokmin _

_ December, 2021 _

_ Los Angeles, California _

* * *

Autumn slides into winter gently, blowing the leaves to the ground and adding a breath of chill to the air. November edges into December, the cornucopias replaced by twinkling lights and Christmas carols. The city trembles under the festivity, dressed in red and green and glowing at night. It’s a foreign tradition to Minghao. 

He stands in the living room now, watching as Seokmin wrestles a giant Christmas tree (20 feet!) into a standing position. The muscles on his arms flex with the strain, and admittedly, Minghao is watching them more than the process itself. As if sensing his eyes on him, Seokmin huffs a breath over his shoulder. 

“Yah, Myungho, at least help me,” he grumbles, swatting at the pieces of coniferous leaves nestled stubbornly in his hair. Laughing, Minghao crosses the room, gently working his fingers through the strands of Seokmin’s hair. They run through his fingers easily, and Minghao’s brain wonders what it might be like to tighten his grip and pull, to tip Seokmin’s head back and press a kiss just below his ear. He slams the brakes on harshly before the train of his thoughts could derail.  _ Restricted zone _ , he reminds himself. The fir needles relinquish their hold after a few insistent tugs of Minghao’s hands, the green of the leaves coaxing out the reddish undertones of Seokmin’s newly-dyed hair. 

He lets the leaves fall gently into his palms, unwillingly removing his fingers from Seokmin’s soft nest of hair. 

“There you go,” Minghao murmurs, voice melting into the silence that had slipped in some time ago. With the tree now standing without a constant threat of toppling over, Seokmin turns to look at him, bringing his face within centimeters’ proximity to Minghao’s. The world fades around them, the overall joy outside diminishing to background noise as the air flares embers between them. Their eyes meet, and Minghao is alight with tingles, little bursts of energy spreading beneath his skin. He’s close enough to count each individual lash, to watch its flutter as Seokmin blinks, the most graceful butterflies Minghao’s ever seen. His eyes drop to Seokmin’s lips, the pink of them plush and parted; a rose blooming. 

From afar, Seokmin is strikingly handsome, but up close, he’s  _ beautiful.  _ The Angel must have been generous with Seokmin, Minghao thinks dazedly. Shadowhunters are all born good-looking beings, credited to the Angel blood coursing through their veins. But to Minghao, Seokmin’s beauty surpasses this world, defies the vocabulary of human languages and puts the available adjectives to shame. Love roots deep in his chest, glowing in response to this gorgeous human in front of him. Minghao doesn’t love Seokmin because he’s beautiful, though. He’s beautiful to him because he loves him. A sudden coil of emotions lodges itself in his throat, and he presses his lips together before he can let slip something overloaded with unreciprocated feelings.

A fluttering hand settles on his face, warm and slender. A thumb hooks under his chin gently, encouraging him to look up into dark honeyed eyes. “Myungho-yah? What’s wrong?” Minghao’s pulse jumps, inches from where Seokmin’s thumb is still hooked. He swallows nervously. 

“Nothing, it’s fine.” He attempts an escape from Seokmin’s hand, but finds that he is helplessly stuck, Seokmin’s other arm snaking around his waist to keep him there. Something in his stomach swoops at the casual display of strength, something Minghao refuses to acknowledge. 

“You’re not, I can tell.” Seokmin says it with a decisiveness to his voice, and Minghao discovers surprise at how easily Seokmin reads him. He discovers annoyance, too. Now is not the time to be transparent, open like a book. He smooths over his face, donning the poker face he’s perfected over the years. His hand finds Seokmin’s where it still rests on his face. Lacing their fingers gently, he pulls Seokmin’s hand away from his face. 

“I’m okay, I’m okay,“ he assures. The lie slips out easily, too easily. Some part of him wants Seokmin to call him out, to see through him to his heart, where it screams that he’s not okay, that he’ll never be okay. Seokmin doesn’t, though, only unwinds his arm from Minghao’s waist. Overtime, Minghao has learned to recognize the different furrows of brow, different down tilts of Seokmin’s lips. The ones hanging from his features now reads crestfallen, disappointed, almost. Guilt takes hold in his chest, pinpointing on how  _ he  _ was the one to cause Seokmin any unhappiness. He squeezes Seokmin’s hand where it’s still twined around his and offers what he hopes is a genuine smile. 

“That tree isn’t going to decorate itself, is it?” he asks lightly, heart contracting painfully at the crinkles around Seokmin’s eyes as he smiles. 

“Well, you have to help me then,” Seokmin says, tugging on Minghao’s hand as he drags him toward the boxes of decorations littering whatever space that’s still left of the living room. Minghao resists the urge to roll his eyes fondly as he allows himself to be dragged. 

With Seokmin’s enthusiasm erasing whatever tension that was between them, they decorated the afternoon away, laughing as they posed for weird selfies with tinsel in their hair and baubles as earrings. At one point, they had tripped over a stray piece of tinsel on the floor, sending them both sprawling to the floor, with Seokmin bracketing Minghao’s face with his arms as he hovered above Minghao. Seokmin had smiled down at him, seemingly oblivious to the implications of their position. He’d climbed up, offering Minghao a hand as he dusted himself off with the other. It had taken Minghao a good amount of time to clear his head after that, resulting in a hurried run to the bathroom, where he had splashed water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror. 

_ Shit.  _ _  
  
_

*

Seokmin goes out to patrol for the night, snug in gear and a jacket Minghao demanded he wear, because it’s chilly. Seokmin had pouted and grumbled, but allowed it anyway. Darkness drapes over the city, a backdrop for the lights to dance upon. The ocean is tranquil outside, kissing the shorelines gently before retreating back, tentative like a new lover. 

Minghao spends the evening in his bedroom, sitting in front of an easel with classical music drifting through the air and guiding his paintbrush. It’s peaceful and worry free, and Minghao revels in the ability to lose himself in his thoughts. Unfortunately, lately, the sole occupier of his mind seems to be Seokmin. Really, if this relationship is like any other he’s had, then he would have confessed by now. It’s just that with Seokmin, something is different. Seokmin is his best friend, and he would forever prioritize that above any messy feelings that might get in the way. But underneath all of that, shoved away in a corner Minghao doesn’t want to acknowledge, is fear. He’s afraid, Angel, he’s so scared. If his past experiences were any indication, he’s like a creature of war, flitting from nation to nation and leaving behind nothing but ruin and ashes. He doesn’t want to bare himself only for Seokmin to be cruelly torn away from him. He cannot stand losing another loved one. Even if it means casting aside his mess of a heart and holding on to Seokmin as just a friend, then so be it. 

But matters of the heart are unpredictable, fickle like nature. He cannot ignore the want that gasps in his chest every time he’s close to Seokmin, every time they touch. If things go on like this, Minghao thinks he might melt through the earth and cease existing; to hell with immortality. 

He doubles forward with a groan, almost sending the painting flying in process.  _ He’s so fucked.  _

*

He had just begun layering in the dark blue undertones of his painting when his safe haven was interrupted. Shouts flew through the air, colliding with Minghao’s eardrums in a series of “Minghao, Minghao, open the goddamn door!” 

He flies down the stairs, sliding along the tiled floor of the Institute foyer and throwing the heavy oak doors open. Chaos greets him, but he only sees one thing. Seokmin, unconscious, losing blood at a dangerous speed on the stairs. Mark Tuan, a local shadowhunter and Seokmin’s patrol partner, gestures at Minghao wildly.

“Get him inside!” Minghao hauls Seokmin in, slamming the door against the tide of  _ Mantid  _ demons. On other occasions, he might feel bad about abandoning Mark to fend off  _ Mantid  _ demons alone, but more pressing matters await him. 

Seokmin is dressed in wounds, gashes that run way too deep for regular  _ Mantid _ demon injuries. Hands shaking, Minghao retrieves the emergency first-aid kit, cleaning at the wounds the best he can. There’s too many. Seokmin is losing blood at an alarming rate. Panic eats at the edge of his mind, and he sees Jeonghan, for a second, lying pale and still in the bracket of Minghao’s arms. His lungs rattle, chest constricting. He can’t get enough air in.  _ I can’t save him, I can’t save him, I’m failing him.  _

The door bangs open, revealing Mark in tattered clothing, green-black demon ichor eating away at the gear. He peels it off with a sound of disgust before quickly kneeling next to Minghao. 

“Where’s your stele?” Minghao asks frantically, “He needs  _ iratzes _ , there are too many wounds.” 

Mark digs it out with trembling hands, tracing rough  _ iratzes  _ onto undamaged skin. The lines glow on Seokmin’s skin, and for a moment, he’s a moon, haloed in silver against the dark red of the blood pooling on the floor. He looks like a dying angel, Minghao thinks through the fog in his brain, holding his breath as the runes glimmer then fade, sinking into Seokmin’s skin. Painfully slow, the wounds begin knitting themselves together, leaving unblemished skin behind. Minghao feels relief ease the constriction in his chest ever so slightly. Beside him, Mark lets out a harsh exhale. 

“We were caught unaware. The  _ Mantids _ sneaked up on us, there were so many of them. We weren’t in our best conditions, and our senses let us down. Now look where that got him.” Shame seeps through the spaces of his words, colors his cheeks and ducks his head. Minghao reaches out a hand, patting his shoulder lightly. 

“It’s okay. Accidents happen all the time. What’s important is that you are both okay now.” Mark returns his smile, exhaustion etched on his face. 

“Come on, let’s get him into the Infirmary and get you a room for the night.” 

Minghao cleans the blood away as Mark gets Seokmin upstairs. Tonight was too close. Fear is a constant drum beneath his skin, thrumming through his veins. For once, he curses Seokmin’s angel blood. Danger is well-known to shadowhunters, but that doesn’t make it any less easy to deal with the aftermath. The sight of Seokmin drenched in blood claws at his heart. He just wants to wrap Seokmin in several fuzzy blankets and protect him forever. But alas, life does not operate in such ways. 

He makes his way up the stairs quietly, pushing open the door of the Infirmary. A sliver of moonlight reaches elegant hands through the curtains, curling its silvery fingers around Seokmin’s face. It reminds Minghao of Seokmin an hour ago, runes aglow on his skin. Peace threads through the air now, through Minghao, boosted by the knowledge that Seokmin will be okay. He pads to Seokmin’s bed, brushing a stray curl away gently. Deja vu knocks into him, evocative of another time, months ago, sitting by an Infirmary bed, brushing stray bangs off Seokmin’s face. He’d vowed to never let that happen again, but here he is. 

“I’m sorry, I broke my promise,” he whispers, looking down into the serene expression of Seokmin at rest.

Long lashes flutter in response, warm brown peeking through half-lids at Minghao. His heart thumps, flailing in a moment of vulnerability. Had Seokmin heard him?

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” The question shakes on its way out, stumbling just past his lips before fading. His hand cards through Seokmin’s hair absentmindedly, pale against the reddish-brown. Seokmin’s eyes open fully, catching on the moonlight and shining silver. 

Minghao’s breath catches in his throat, stunned by the beauty in front of him. Up close, the moon sprinkles light on the angles of Seokmin’s cheekbones, the slope of his nose. Shadows mingle in juxtaposition to luminescence; it’s ethereal, angelic. Minghao wants to paint him, to capture the slices of highlight , edges mellowed by shadow, interwoven to create Seokmin’s face under the moon. 

“No, you didn’t wake me,” Seokmin answers the question long forgotten. Minghao snaps out of his thoughts. Waxing poetic about Seokmin’s beauty can wait. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, sliding his hand down the side of Seokmin’s face, watching in fascination at the way shadows and lights shift and change. 

“It was just a few cuts, nothing too bad,” Seokmin assures, voice gentle in the silence. Minghao’s hand shakes where it rests against his face. He tries to withdraw it before Seokmin can notice. But Seokmin and his shadowhunter senses catch him anyways. His hand is caught before he can move it, enclosed in warm, slender fingers as Seokmin looks up at him, worry parting his lips and furrowing his brow. 

“Myungho-yah, what’s been going lately? You haven’t been yourself.” 

“What do you mean? Of course I’m still myself.” Minghao answers shakily, but his resolve is crumbling. He’s so tired of bottling up his feelings. A few more questions and he’ll be done for.

“It’s, like, one moment you’re you, the Myungho I know and love, and then I say something and you withdraw. You’re like a fortress, Myungho-yah, and I can’t see through it, I can’t help you.” Seokmin makes a noise of frustration, gesturing wildly at the ceiling. “I want to help, please, let me help.” He pouts imploringly at Minghao, puppy eyes on full force. 

Minghao swallows. Brick by brick, his walls are destroyed, fortress gone. He’s bare, vulnerable, and he wants nothing more than to tell Seokmin. And so he does. 

“You know my past, the messy relationships, the accidents that took them.” Seokmin nods, thumb circling soothingly over the back of his hand. Minghao wants to cry. 

“What I never told you was that two of them died in my arms, because I couldn’t save them. Two of them I never even found, bodies lost to rubble and ashes. Wherever I go, I burn, and I’m so scared. I’m so scared to find love, because I’ll lose them and it’ll be my fault.” Minghao shudders, shoulders shaking as the first tear slips down his cheek. A hand wipes it away gently, and Minghao opens his eyes to find warmth kindled in the other pair. 

“Myungho-yah, that wasn’t your fault, and it’ll never be. Accidents happen, no one’s to blame for that.” 

“Logistically, I know that, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.” The hand cups his cheek, and Minghao leans into it.

“I was so scared tonight, Seokmin. You were bleeding so badly, and I had a fucking panic attack when I was supposed to be saving you. I nearly lost you, Seok-ah, and I don’t think I’ll live if I did.” 

Seokmin says nothing to that, only traces endless shapes on Minghao’s hand, shapes that whisper  _ I’m still here.  _

“Because as hard as I try to guard my heart, to not fall so easily, I still did.” Seokmin’s eyes snap up at that, something else hiding behind the curiosity. 

“I love you, Seokmin-ah, you know that right?” The question is somewhat frantic, desperate in its search for an answer.

Bewilderment finds its way into Seokmin’s eyes, and his hand tightens around Minghao’s. “Of course I know that, I love you too. You’re my best friend.”

“Not like that, Seokmin.” Minghao is fully crying now, the dam broken, tears welling over and falling without restraint. “Not like that.”

“I’m in love with you.” He exhales it on a  _ woosh.  _ It feels so good to say it, to finally affirm his feelings. Hands wipe at his face gently, tenderly, and a thumb hooks under his chin. Minghao opens his eyes, lashes wet, to find Seokmin sitting up. Both his hands cover Minghao’s face, forcing him to maintain eye contact. Tears form in Seokmin’s eyes, and alarm rings through Minghao. He reaches out a tentative hand, but Seokmin’s smiling. 

“Oh Angel,” he gasps, his head tipping back, “Oh thank the Angel.” Minghao stares at him, eyes wide and puzzled. Seokmin looks back at him, a smile still playing at the corners of his lips. 

“Goodness, I love you too, I’m in love with you too.” Joy adorns his words, crystal clear and sweet out of his lips. Minghao stares at him. 

“Really?” he breathes out, woozy with shock.

“Really!” Seokmin is full on beaming now, eyes matching the half moon outside. Minghao wants so bad to kiss him, but he has to be sure first. “Angel, I’ve been in love with you for so long, and I didn’t even realize it.” 

Minghao narrows his eyes questioningly, a last test. 

“Myungho-yah, I’m serious!” Minghao is suddenly tugged forwards, a pair of lips warm against his, rose petals and silk. He melts against Seokmin, hand sliding into his hair. It’s so good. He’s dreamed of this so many times, and it's better than anything his imagination can conjure. So when Seokmin’s tongue traces at the seam of his lips, teasing and gentle, he opens eagerly. He swallows Seokmin’s laughter, pushing at his chest gently until they both topple onto the bed. Minghao presses his body flush against Seokmin, revels in the heat and sturdiness of him. Seokmin’s breath hitches when their hips meet, and Minghao presses another kiss to the edge of Seokmin’s jaw, to his neck, and nips just below his ear, just as he wanted to this morning. Seokmin gasps into the night, sharp and wanting, and desire coils in Minghao’s stomach. 

He props himself up on his forearms, and rests his forehead against Seokmin’s.    
  


“Is this okay?” he asks into the space between them. Seokmin nods frantically, hands finding purchase on his waist and pressing him even closer, whispering a needy  _ yes, yes, yes  _ against Minghao’s lips. 

Minghao takes his time that night, mapping out Seokmin’s body with his hands and his mouth with his tongue until Seokmin is a writhing, pleading mess underneath him. When they align, it’s with love flowering between them, a chorus of birds singing hallelujah outside as they crash into each other over and over again. Minghao finds that he enjoys pulling sounds out of Seokmin, the little hitches of breath and whimpers music to his ears, the soloist to the choir outside. When he collapses next to Seokmin, tired and happy, the myriad of marks dotting Seokmin’s neck sends a flurry of possessiveness fluttering through his veins. He presses feather-light kisses to Seokmin’s body, just because he can, and the little giggles that chime in response are something Minghao wants to hear for the rest of his life. They fall asleep to the rhythm of each other’s hearts, beating in tandem with love and a promise. It’s the best sleep Minghao’s had in ages. 

Minghao wakes the next morning with his head pillowed on a broad chest and their legs tangled. When he looks up, Seokmin blinks back at him, a sleepy smile curving his mouth. Minghao kisses him good morning, and rejoices in the sunrise blushing up the sides of Seokmin’s neck. 

The Infirmary is stifling with contentment, but Minghao finds that he doesn't mind. They spend the morning cuddling, Minghao rolling his eyes when Mark comes to check in on Seokmin and leaves with a smirk thrown over his shoulders. Nestled against Seokmin, Minghao smiles to himself. His heart is finally at rest. The tattoos have a new addition, but this time, it’s joyous and willing. He thinks back to ages ago, sitting in a bright kitchen with his mother’s hand carding through his hair. 

_ The world will carve patience from you like one would a figure from stone.  _

His mother was right. The world did carve patience from him. And look where that patience got him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i spy with my little eye a home run reference????
> 
> THINGS TO CLARIFY:  
> given that this is set in the Shadow World, there's some vocab you are probably wondering at.  
> 1\. witchlight-a shadowhunter flashlight, essentially. Looks like a stone and it lights up when commanded by a shadowhunter  
> 2\. stele-a thin, wand shaped object used by shadowhunters to apply runes  
> 3\. mundanes-the shadowhunter word for regular people  
> 4\. gear-specialized protective clothing worn by shadowhunters on patrols  
> 5\. iratzes-a healing rune
> 
> sorry minghao i put u through so much pain. 
> 
> thanks for reading! let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! hope you enjoyed!


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